Westbound Sign ➵ Billie Joe Armstrong

Dust & Daylight

Collin

It had been a week since we got back from New York, and I hadn't heard a thing from Billie.

Not a call, not a letter, not even a weirdly poetic postcard.

I told myself it was fine. That we hadn't made any promises. That it had all existed in the strange, suspended world of hotel rooms and late night pop tarta and stolen lighters. And now this was real life again - nails and screws and the hum of fluorescent lights in my dad's hardware store.

I was at the counter, checking  a customer out after helping him find the right kind of anchor bolts for some half baked shelving project, when Dad called out from the back.

"Hey, Collin, can you check if we've got more wrenches in the back bin? Size 5/16."

"On it," I called back, dusting my hands off on my jeans.

The storage room smelled like plywood and motor oil. Familiar. Safe. Unchanging.

I stood there for a moment longer than I needed to, just breathing it in.

When I came back out, I found Dad unpacking a small shipment of brass hinges, squinting at the invoice.

"So," he said, not looking up, "You gonna tell me more about your trip?"

I shrugged, setting the wrenches on the counter. "It was cool. Loud. Fast. Cold."

"That all?" he asked, lifting an eyebrow.

"Pretty much," I said, avoiding eye contact and picking at the edge of a label.

I didn't mention the part where we got arrested and sent to the Bronx. Or the bodega lock on the Brooklyn Bridge. Or the way Billie said "we're gonna talk more about this," like it was a promise stitched under his breath.

I didn't tell him about getting banned from the hotel after someone, Tre and Billie, obviously - threw a mattress off ten stories  "as an artistic and rebellious statement."

I left out the long walks, the sleepless night, the soft way Billie looked at me like he already knew the things I hadn't said out loud. The way Mike's quiet questions lingered even after the conversation had ended. The way Erin laughed louder there. The way Tre was chaos incarnate.

Instead, I said, "We saw the Empire State Building. Erin cried when we found a bakery that sold real black and white cookies. I ate a hot dog that might've permanently altered my DNA."

Dad chuckled. "City'll do that to you."

I nodded. "Yeah."

There was still warmth here. The rhythm of routine. Paint swatches, dusty floors. The way Dad hummed old George Strait under his breath when he was restocking nails. But I kept glancing at the front door like it might do something dramatic. Like a letter might slip under it.
Or Billie might walk through it like this was the start of some movie I didn't believe in.

Anything.

Instead, the bell jingled softly and someone walked in tracking mud across the tile.

''Welcome. Need help with anything?" I asked, forcing the smile that had started to feel like part of the uniform.

And life, small town and slow, kept rolling forward. Customers walked in and out, cars drove by, everyday looked the same.

...

The afternoon slouched on. People came and went. The sun started its slow slide behind the strip mall. Then Dad glanced at the wall clock. "Almost time to close up. Let's not keep your mom waiting.  She's making that casserole thing you like."